


A Storm (is a brewin')

by Directionless_Foray



Series: InSignificance [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, FIFA World Cup 2014, M/M, More angst, World Cup, so yeah i decided to continue this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/pseuds/Directionless_Foray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight he feels brave.<br/>Perhaps too brave.<br/>Perhaps just brave enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Storm (is a brewin')

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah I caved and continued this. The response was lovely (tHANK YOUU everyone who kudo-ed and commented) and I couldn't leave my babies without closure. This piece takes place the night after Germany defeats Portugal. If this gets a good response I think I might write a third and final ENDING. Oh and yeah, total figment of my imagination. *breathes out* so yeah, enjoy *nervous laughter*

_Do we crave winning or what is associated with winning? Do we crave the notion of being a ‘winner’ or the world that is open to a ‘winner?’_

_This is a bad idea. This is a **really** bad idea._ The voice alternates between chiding and excited. Good thing Mesut is so drunk on endorphins and is subsequently deaf to his brains objections. He takes a deep breath before knocking on the door (' _room number 708' Sami had helpfully supplied with a tired but pleased smile_ ). Two confident sharp knocks, and he raises his hand to knock once more but freezes. An image of Cris, a disappointed and defeated Cris. Suddenly he’s not too sure he should be here, _this is such a **bad** idea_ , if he were in situation he would probably want to be alone, and he’s not _Cris._ God, this was a _terrible_ idea and just as Mesut begins backing away, the door cracks open.

Cris looks at him, so hopeful and so lost. Mesut notes that his eyes are red rimmed from tears, tears for a country and a man who would rather die than be anywhere but first place. _This is such a horrible idea._ “Sorry I was just leaving, so sorry...” Mesut trails off meekly as he turns to make a quick getaway. Suddenly a firm grip latches onto his wrist, Mesut has no choice but to turn and face brown eyes, beautiful browns pools of pain, of warmth and comfort and everything Mesut was, _still is_ , too afraid to let himself want.

“No, no, please, please stay.”

The hope that was growing in the crumbled ruins of Mesut heart surges, tentative tendrils brushing over the remains of the cage bars encasing his fragile heart.

Mesut nods, more to himself than anything. There’s so much he wants to say, _I miss you, it’s not the same, it’s never the same, why did I have to go? why did you let me go? **Why** did you **let** me go?_ He settles on a weak “I’m sorry.”

“No, why should you be sorry?”

“Well I- I guess, maybe becau-”

Cris cuts him off, “you were… _magnificent_.”

Mesut can’t help but laugh at that, at the reverent tone, “hardly.” His spanish is still rusty, but like all things related to Cristiano it’s feels painfully easy and dangerously effortless to slip back into.

“No, you were.” His tone is final leaving no room for any doubt. Cris ducks his head a little embarrassed. “You are.”

The pride emanating from Cris makes Mesut feel weightless, makes him feel brave. Perhaps too brave.

“I missed you.” Cris looks up quickly. Mesut panics and backtracks, “I mean obviously you didn't really miss me, I, that’s silly… to even consider” Mesut’s tongue feels too big for his mouth and suddenly spanish isn’t so effortless and he’s stumbling over words and different tenses whilst his mind screeches _insignificant, insignificant_. Mesut cringes and backs away. 

“Do you remember what you said about me once.” Cris interrupts him and looks at him, his determined gaze unblinking.

Even in his mortified state Mesut can still dryly reply “I’ve said lots of things, you’re going to have to be more-”

Cris cuts him off again, “you said that I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

And suddenly Mesut is swept up in a memory. Of warm sheets and even warmer smiles. Of bliss and comfort and safety. Of the past, things that were but are not anymore.

Mesut swallows then croaks, “you… remembered.” Genuine surprise is evident in his voice.

Cris smiles sadly but continues. “But now I’m thinking that maybe, maybe some people, the important ones, don’t see it on my sleeve.” He breathes in and then breathes out nervously, the corner of his lips twitches wryly. “Maybe you did not see it.”

A million pale white doves fly out of the bars encasing Mesut’s heart. The tendrils curled around the cage bars sprout into flowers. His poor bruised and battered heart feels too hollow and too full at the same time. It’s a painful but intoxicating feeling. Heavy and light at the same time. Confusion and complete clarity.

His lips spread into a tentative smile, and Mesut reaches for Cris’ hand but then hesitates, _Cris’ face falls_ , and closes the distance between the two, Cris is still watching him, an excruciatingly self-deprecating smile gracing his lips. Mesut feels dangerously brave, the flowers blooming in his heart flutter in a gentle breeze. Mesut lifts his hand and strokes Cris’ cheek, takes a deep breath and looks into those surprised brown eyes. He looks into those eyes that he has missed, missed so much, and tries again, “I missed you.”

Cris only takes a few seconds to comprehend, his confused expression morphs into one of heartbreaking elation in the matter of seconds. Before Mesut can laugh or respond in anyway he is being pulled into Cris and pushed up against a wall. Mesut opens his mouth to protest but is instead surprised by a warm body being pressed against his and soft lips pressing into his. Mesut pulls back and stares at Cris, his pupils are dilated and his smile looks so wide it must be physically hurting him, Mesut grins and wraps his arms around Cris' neck and tucks his face into his neck. Cris presses a kiss into Mesut's hair and whispers, "I missed you _so_ much," his voice cracks.

Mesut lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

 

Outside on the street life goes on, but inside that hotel room, for two people, it feels as though the very earth has shifted.

**Author's Note:**

> wAS THAT ACCEPTABLE AND WOULD YOU LIKE MORE? (or alternatively did it suck loads and make you hate me because my sentences are too long and my storylines are stupid and I can't write whilst using proper grammar and correct spelling)


End file.
